


Challenges Like These

by PaulaMcG



Series: Professor at Hogwarts [6]
Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Artist Remus Lupin, Bisexuality, Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Christmas, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hogwarts, Memories, Nature, No Sex, Past Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Professor Remus Lupin, Romantic Friendship, Teacher-Student Relationship, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:47:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23544895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaulaMcG/pseuds/PaulaMcG
Summary: At Christmas 1993 both Remus and Luna take comfort in looking for what is hard to find, and just where it’s hardest to find it.
Relationships: Luna Lovegood/Remus Lupin
Series: Professor at Hogwarts [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693546
Kudos: 4





	Challenges Like These

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written in 2009 for Mini Fest on Livejournal. I'm still grateful to Livejournal user Duck Or Rabbit for help and encouragement. The prompt I'd claimed was _Apparently, Nargles are real, and we just stood under the Mistletoe._ Luna and Remus won't help me make any money.
> 
> This can be read separately from my other fanfic, also from my other PoA-era fics, although all my fics belong to the same Rowling's-first-five-novels-compliant universe.

The origami birds I’ve tied to the tips of my braids flutter their wings when I descend the front steps, squinting in the light whirls of snow. They’d like to take me the opposite direction, so I know exactly where to look for Papyrovorus Nargles. The lopsided lantern of the moon glows low above the lake, certainly enticing not only me, but some less visible creatures as well.

There’s someone solid and almost immobile, too, at the dark water’s edge. A shadow reaches across the white expanse and becomes more alive: the frayed hem of a cloak waves, soothing my birds and telling us it’s Professor Lupin standing on top of a rock. Now he pulls something out of a pocket and crouches.

He’s said we may come to him any time when we’ve got questions. And I’ve always got questions. Not that I’d expect anyone, even a Defence teacher, to find the answers to the most interesting ones – any more than the Nargles – for me. But the point is that this wise and sensitive man has somehow initiated contact with me: I never need hesitate to talk to him. I gather the hems of my robes, and lifting them above my knees, I wade through the heavy snow.

He’s examining a branch of a rowan. A finger brushes cautiously the glittering edge of the incomplete remains of a leaf. The two of them have both been bitten by frost and there’s a shade of red in each – but nothing like the glorious warmth of those leaves’ colour only a few days ago.

When I stop in front of his rock, my head is not much higher than the level of his shoes. Right, he’s got no boots.

And there can’t be any creatures on these berryless twigs. “I’d look in mistletoe.”

Her eyes shine like open skies. I’m about to stand straight so as to hide the sketchbook and the pencil in my pocket. But I catch myself huddling down closer to this light.

“Nargles prefer white berries, I think, and definitely green leaves,” Luna Lovegood explains. “Of course, you might lure some with that pad of parchment, if they’ve made the mistake to fly to this tree for berries.”

“Oh. No, I wasn’t hunting for any creatures. Just some… colours.” 

“In this season and weather that’s fun, too.”

Is this bright girl making fun of me? I know it’s too late. The autumnal chorus flared up for too brief a moment.

Silly of me, of course, to continue examining these landscapes. But I’d rather find the last hints of the young ladies I only admired from far: Alice, Amelia, Lily – none of them just the right one for me. Within the castle walls the garish twinkle of holiday cheer, now offered to us lonely souls, just burns with too sharp memories of those who were once too near and dear. Lily, of course, became one of those, and her living fire like the red of rowans kept me warm even afterwards… But slender, golden Alice – a birch tree, now bare. And Amelia, whose sensible mittened hand I grabbed right here when she’d followed me, worried about me, perhaps infatuated, but too down-to-earth to share with me the miracle worked by the first frost: the emergence of secret colours.

“They’ll bring some mistletoe in soon, perhaps tomorrow, with all the Christmas trees as well, but then it’s all too easy and…”

I can’t help staring at her face: the full, soft curve of her cheek, the perfect skin. And now her words confirm the miracle of connection. No, there’s nothing trite in its simplicity. The two of us truly understand each other. We share the love for challenges like these – in looking for what is hard to find, and just where it’s hardest to find it. She believes her Nargles inhabit mistletoe, so she wants to find them elsewhere, or at least looks for the mistletoe in the snowstorm, before it’s in her reach and therefore…

“No fun,” I say, winking. “Unless you hope for a chance to kiss someone.”

“No, I’d rather hold hands first.” She says that airily, while her focus is unmistakably on my wretched and wet shoes.

This is not the first time her sincere interest makes me embarrassed about my wardrobe in a way no adult’s contempt or child’s mocking does. Or is it her wit’s and beauty’s and odd maturity’s doing? I feel we are peers, and with her I turn into a more awkward teenager than I ever was.

I back off for a moment by standing and hiding my sketch at least. But then I crouch again and stretch out my hand. “Can you help me down? We could look for evergreen leaves and Nargles together. I remember seeing some growth up on a birch a bit further on the shore.”

“All right.” She gives me a smile and her fingers, which peek out under a too-long sleeve of a jumper.

I’d climbed onto that rock so as to escape the deep snow, but it’s more than all right to stride on with her, in beautifully awkward silence – which can turn only into more awkward beauty when her voice rings clear again.

“You’ve got no gloves or friends either?”

It’s hard to truly hear that last word, as well as the slight emphasis on the first one.

But she helps me by continuing, “I lost mine.”

“Your…”

“Mittens. Pair after pair, some people must have taken them. Friends… I’ve never found any friends at Hogwarts. And you?”

At that moment I spot that birch and the green growth attached to its branches, and can’t resist pulling her right below, while searching for the best words.

Not yet, not before this, I want to reply. As if I had never loved, never destroyed lives by loving the wrong person. Have I? No, here tonight I’m hardly one year older than her. And I’m falling in love with a girl, as I should.

“May I…?” An awkward, bold boy, I reach and stroke her cheek with my fingertips. Its smooth touch is the closest to heaven I’ll ever get.

He’s not asking for permission to kiss me, is he? He could give me a peck on the cheek, playfully, since there’s the mistletoe hanging above us. But no, he’s not that kind of a playful adult. 

His fingers have stopped. He’s hardly touching me anymore. Of course, he thinks I’m dangerous to him. Like the moon. Yes, I’m sure about the moon now – and so glad about how much of him is visible to me.

I’ve seen before that he’s older and younger than all the other teachers. Old and young like me. He’s seen death and worse. 

It’s in this smile, too: he’s weary and still troubled. Yet, he enjoys every moment at Hogwarts: listens and watches us carefully, laughs easily. Perhaps because he’s carried a load of love with him, haven’t quite given up on it. Can he believe love’s safe and real as late – and as soon – as now?

Some other girls giggle and sigh: they have crushes on teachers. I’ll be glad to wait quietly until he’s no longer my teacher. But love is also safe right here, when he lowers his cold hand and I hide mine with it in his pocket.

Of course, the two of us share a desire to embrace; the freezing gust of wind gives us an excuse. But we choose happily not to do it. My ignored birds try their best to break free. Exchanging nods, we agree to start following them back towards the castle.

This is real: he is with me, more precious than just any friend. Soon he’ll ask what these birds and any number of things mean to me, and he’ll listen, and together we’ll find new questions.

I’ve dreamt and sensed this between the two of us. It becomes real right now when it remains close to impossible. Just like the Nargles I did not try to capture. There they are, I know, shining in that mistletoe back by the lake, watching after us in our love.


End file.
